


Fridays at Seven

by secretsalex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rentboys, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12909138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsalex/pseuds/secretsalex
Summary: It was too late the moment you walked through the door.





	Fridays at Seven

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [hp-darkfest](https://hp-darkfest.livejournal.com) in 2011. 

It’s 6:45. He’ll be here at 7:00, no earlier and no later. The company I go through is the best in London, and the boy is always precisely on time. He bloody well should be, given what I pay for the service. Of course, what I’m really paying for is discretion. The fact that I have a standing engagement with a rentboy from the most expensive escort service in wizarding London is not something I’d prefer to have splashed across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Not that it would ruin me if that came out. No, what would ruin me are the details of the encounter—that I pay double the normal fee because my particular rentboy is Polyjuiced to the gills before he arrives. 

In reality, he’s a snotty blond thing named Tre—angular and mouthy and not at all to my taste. When he arrives at my doorstep every Friday evening, though, he’s already Polyjuiced and in costume, wearing ratty trainers and horrid Muggle jeans. Even the glasses are perfect. I fuck Harry Potter for exactly one hour and then kick Tre out the door. For this service, and its secrecy, I pay an exorbitant amount of Galleons. It has been well worth it. 

I have to give Tre his due. He’s excellent at what he does. I’m sure I’m not the only person who requests The Boy Who Lived in their bed, and he plays the part to perfection. Sometimes he comes through the door and submits to me from the start. Other times he struggles. It’s delicious, really. Last week he even managed to get ahold of a Gryffindor tie and was wearing it when I opened the door. Lovely. I gagged him with it and spanked the shit out of him before I fucked him. He begs very prettily.

Tonight I have no concrete plans for how I want the evening to proceed. It’s frustrating—I enjoy long scenarios, foreplay that can last until the wee hours of the morning before anything is ever consummated. It’s an indulgence I am denied with this arrangement. The Polyuice lasts precisely one hour, and although Tre is willing to continue drinking it for as long as I require it, I can’t bear for him to have to drink it in my presence. It ruins the verisimilitude. I’d rather a quick fuck with Potter than a lingering evening with a rentboy drinking Polyjuice. 

The knock on my door is quiet, three short raps. I don’t move from the sofa for a moment; I just sit there, waiting. It’s important to me that I keep up some sort of guise that I’m not gagging for it. It’s stupid, I know—why bother playing it cool with one’s hired whore? Pretense is important, though. 

When I finally open the door, my heart speeds up when I find myself face to face with Potter. It happens every week, this physical arousal that’s almost sickening. Tre’s outdone himself this week. He’s wearing a hand-knitted jumper that looks identical to those hideous things Weasel’s mum used to send to Hogwarts for all her brood, only this one is emblazoned with an “H” across the chest. It’s this kind of attention to detail that makes Tre worth every fucking Sickle. 

“Potter, what a surprise,” I say.

“Er—umm, yes, it is, I’m sure,” Potter stutters.

I smirk. If this is how Tre wants to play it, that’s fine with me.

“Do have a seat, Potter. What brings you to my flat?”

“Er. Well. I haven’t been in London—well, haven’t really been in England at all, not since the war ended, you know—and now I’m back, I thought. See you.” 

Potter never could string a coherent sentence together. The part of me not lost in the fantasy already wonders if Tre has been studying up on his role. He’s never gotten the speech patterns so dead-on like this before, and my prick is fucking hard already. “Eloquent as ever, I see. The Conquering Hero returns, does he?”

Potter blushes and runs his hands through his hair, making it look even more ridiculous than it had before. “More like the coward returning to face his past, I think,” he mumbles. 

I raise an eyebrow at the man sitting before me, squirming on my couch, and consider how I want to play this. Tre seems in the mood for conversation, and frankly, there’s nothing I’d like more than to draw this little game out as long as possible. The polyjuice makes it impossible, though, and I figure I’d better move quickly. I’d like to come twice tonight, and that leaves precious little time for idle chatter, no matter how delightful the prospect. “Yes, well, I’m sure your adoring public has missed you. Stand up.”

Potter’s wide-eyed gaze behind his ridiculous glasses makes him look comically owlish. 

“Stand _up_ , Potter.” If he wants to be disobedient, I’ll take it out of his arse. 

Potter stands, confusion evident. 

“Come here and get on your knees,” I tell him. 

“What the fuck, Malfoy? You fucking prick—“

I’m on my feet and in front of him before I even realize I’m going to do it. “Shut the fuck up, Potter, and _get on your fucking knees_.” The back of my hand across his face feels so good I can feel the impact vibrate up my arm and straight down into my prick. 

Potter’s head is thrown back and he’s stunned for a brief moment, but he recovers quickly. I don’t even see his fist until it connects with my jaw. I stumble back and just barely manage to stay on my feet. I fucking _hate_ pain, and Potter’s fist felt like a goddamn bludger. I see red. This crosses a line, and Potter will fucking pay for it. 

“You little whore. How dare you?” My wand is out and pointed at him in a heartbeat, and I don’t hesitate to cast the spell as he fumbles for his own. The real Potter would never be so slow, I think, but that doesn’t hinder my satisfaction when the ropes appear at Potter’s wrists and bind them tightly behind his back. “You’ll fucking pay for it.”

Potter stumbles and falls against the chair behind him, squirming. “Malfoy, you crazy bastard, what the fuck is your fucking problem?” His voice cracks as he yells.

“You, Potter. You are my fucking problem. You’ve _always_ been my fucking problem.” I wave my wand again and his ankles are bound together. “Now shut the fuck up and sit there like a good little whore while I decide what to do with you.” 

Potter’s eyes are livid, and I can feel his magic pulsing. It’s crazy—Tre has never been this convincing, and I had no idea the little bastard was so powerful. With that much natural ability, I have no idea how he ended up a whore. What a waste of a wizard. 

“Now, that’s better,” I say, forcing my voice to be calm, even. I step forward and tangle my hand in his hair, not being gentle but not actually pulling, either. My right hand keeps my wand trained on him. With the magic coming off him in waves, I don’t trust him even though he can’t reach into his pocket for his own wand. 

Potter whips and thrashes at my touch, and I grab a handful of hair and pull his neck back, hard. Gods, it feels so bloody good, forcing Potter’s head back until he has to look up at me. 

“Good boy. You’re going to be punished for this.” I cast again, this time Vanishing his clothing. Potter’s rage laces with humiliation, and I swear it’s a tangible thing in the air. Merlin, I want to wade in it, bathe in his mortification. 

Potter’s eyes are huge, green and violent and terrified. “Malfoy, stop, please.” His voice is a whisper now. “I’m sorry I came. I didn’t—I didn’t know—gods, I’m sorry.”

“Too late for sorry,” I singsong in his ear, letting my breath wash over his neck. “Sorry would have been appropriate after you ruined my fucking family. Sorry would have been appropriate after you failed to return my wand and forced me to procure another one when no wizard in Britain wanted to do business with a Malfoy. Sorry would have been appropriate after the seven years at Hogwarts you spent as the bane of my existence.” I laugh, and even to my own ears it’s a dead sound. “It’s too late for sorry, Potter.” I aim my wand at his feet and loosen the bonds enough that he’ll be able to shuffle on his feet. “Now get up and bend over the back of the sofa like the good little whore I know you are.”

Potter just stares at me, frozen. “Malfoy, you’re crazy. My god, you’re going to—to fucking rape me!”

I laugh again, and this time it sounds mildly less maniacal, I think. “You can’t rape a whore, Potter.”

“A whore? You don’t even bloody know me!”

I snort. “That’s rich, coming from the man who spends every Friday evening arse up on my bed.”

Potter’s expression goes even slacker, if possible. His jaw drops, and he’s sitting there staring up at me, his hair still fisted in my hand, with his mouth hanging open like an imbecile. “You’ve really gone mad,” he breathes. His expression is a strange kind of pity, and it makes me want to strangle him. 

“Very clever,” I mutter. Tre’s act is hitting a little too close to home tonight. I may request someone new next week. “Get up and goddamn move your arse.”

Still staring at me, Potter does, shuffling forward and around the sofa until he’s leaning his hips against the back of it. He’s shaking like a butterfly pinned to a mat. 

I let my hand slip out of his hair and down around his neck, gripping it as I step behind him, pressing my prick up against his arse through my robes. 

“Why are you doing this?” Potter mumbles.

I squeeze delicately at his neck, not enough to choke him but enough to make his breath catch. “You know why.” “No, Malfoy, I really really don’t.”

“Because I can.” My fingers tighten again, convulsing, and Potter gasps. I snake my other hand around his waist and fist his cock, stroking it hard and fast, laughing when it starts to harden. “And because you like it, you little slut. You always do.”

Potter moans, and I’m shocked when a tear trickles down his left cheek. Bravo—Tre deserves an award for tonight, even if I’m not sure I ever want to see an encore of this particular performance. 

“That’s enough talk. Count them for me.” I begin without preamble, bringing my palm down on Potter’s perfect golden arse. Hard. 

Potter screams, actually bloody screams, at the contact. “Malfoy, you fucking crazy bas—“

“I said count, you fucking moron. Stop playing this ridiculous game. You know we don’t have all bloody night.” 

I bring my hand down again, and this time Potter yelps but does at least follow instructions. “O-one!”

I don’t give him any rest between hits, raining down blows on his arse so hard that my entire arm aches after Potter yells “eight.” I ignore it, keep going, until I realize somewhere around twenty that Potter is sobbing, actually sobbing, falling over the back of the sofa and screaming into the leather upholstery, legs shaking and chest hitching. I know for a fact that Tre is a little painslut, so this is just another layer of his theatrics tonight, but it’s so bloody real that I quit, dropping my hand and feeling almost guilty.

“Potter.”

No reply, just more sobbing and hitching. 

“Potter, it’s over.” For the love of Merlin, I feel like this is real and I’ve somehow kicked a krup instead of spanked a well-compensated and thoroughly experienced whore. 

I reach my hand back around Potter’s shuddering hips and grasp his prick, which is still hard and now leaking a steady stream of precome all over my leather sofa. I’d yell at him, but I suppose it’s my fault, given that I told him to lean over it naked and then proceeded to spank the shit out of him. 

I give him a few gentle strokes, catching a quiet rhythm. “It’s over,” I croon, not a little turned on by comforting him from pain inflicted at my own hand. “You did very well.”

Potter snorts and I cringe, visualising snot on leather. “W-w-why are you doing this?”

“Shh.” I don’t answer, just stroke his prick with one hand and soothe his flaming arse with the other. “It’s over, your punishment is over. Come on, come to bed.” I Vanish the ropes at his ankles and wrists.

Potter freezes, not moving a muscle. “What?”

“Come to bed, Potter. We don’t have much time and I need to fuck you.” I don’t have time for niceties. 

Potter starts to babble in protest, and I clamp a hand on his arm and steer him towards the bedroom. His dedication to character is admirable, but time is of the essence. I can’t see the clock, but I’m sure we’re pushing the hour time limit, and the last thing I want is to be midthrust when Potter disappears and I find an armful of snotty little rentboy underneath me. I Accio lube as I frogmarch Potter to the bed.

“Climb up and get on your knees,” I say, still holding my wand on him. 

“Malfoy, you can’t—you can’t be fucking serious, you can’t—“

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, if you don’t shut up I’m going to body-bind you and pretend I’m fucking your corpse,” I say. I don’t mean it. Necrophilia, even imagined, isn’t my bag. But Merlin’s balls, this is getting old. I don’t mind a reluctant Potter, even a recalcitrant one, but the time for games is rapidly coming to a close. 

Potter blinks, and suddenly he’s _crying_ again, soft little tears leaking from the corner of one eye and shimmering on the lashes of the other. It makes me want to hit him. I ignore it. 

“On the bed and on all fours,” I tell him, and he finally moves.

I slick my hand and run a finger around his rim, not bothering to be gentle. Potter hisses when I slide one inside. 

“Feel good, Potter?”

“I hate you,” he says.

“Do you?” I reach around and fist his cock, which is still hard and streaming. 

“Yes, gods damn you.”

“Your cock doesn’t.” 

“I. Fucking. Hate. You.” 

I add a second finger and _twist_ , smiling when Potter squawks and shudders. “No, you don’t.”

“I—uhh—yes, I do,” he says. “You sick rapist fuck.”

“Shut up.” I mean it—there’s something about this game that has gotten away from me, and loathe as I am to admit it, somehow my fucking whore has gotten the upper hand. I feel almost dirty, like what he’s saying, what he’s calling me, is true. And it is true, isn’t it? Tre might be getting paid, but Harry Potter’s never given his consent for his body, his image, to be used this way. _Rapist <_.

I banish the thought and slick my cock, hissing sharply as I reach into my robes and finally touch it. I probably should have used a third finger on Potter before this, but I don’t care. I want it to hurt. And it will. 

“Don’t do this, Malfoy. It’s not too late to stop,” Potter says, and there’s something in his voice, something almost sympathetic, and I hate him all the more for it. 

“It was too late the moment you walked in the door.” I pull my fingers out fast and replace them with my prick, pushing in quick and hard, sliding halfway down my cock before I stop.

Potter doesn’t say a word, but he’s scrabbling across the mattress in an effort to get away and I have to grab his hips and hold him in place. 

“Move again and I’ll fuck you till you bleed.”

At that, Potter freezes, and I feel him clench around me. Merlin, it’s so good I could come from it, right there, my cock halfway in his arse. My balls are already fucking tight and I have to wait, three seconds, four, _ten_ seconds go past before I can breathe again. I slide the rest of the way in and stop again, balls deep, thinking that if I lose it like this, barely fucking inside him, I’ll kill myself.

Out of necessity, the strokes are shallow when I start to move. I can’t bear to fuck him in earnest, can’t even bear to think about it or I’ll come. 

“You like that, Potter?” I’m talking mostly to distract myself.

“No,” Potter whispers.

“Liar. Pretty little liar.”

“You’re a monster. Like your father.” 

I freeze, and then just like that I’mm no longer on the brink of orgasm, and I guess I should thank Potter for that little volley, as it means I can fuck him properly without going off. 

_I’m not my father_. I want to say it, but I can’t, so instead I just fuck him. Hard. He’s so fucking tight it’s excruciating, and he makes little keening noises with every downstroke. 

“Lucius would have fucked you, too,” I tell him, not knowing what on earth possesses me to continue this conversation. “He liked boys—young ones. I’m probably lucky he never fucked me.”

Potter gasps, and I can’t tell if it’s what I’m saying or what I’m doing. I reach around to grab his prick again, stroking fast and hard and only sort of in step with the fucking. 

“You know,” I continue, “if he’d have fucked you, it would have made this look like a picnic. He would have taken you dry and used your blood for lube.”

Potter shudders, and again I can’t tell if it’s arousal or revulsion. Ah well—if he feels anything like I do at the moment, it’s both. 

“Malfoy, please.” He’s begging, and I don’t even know what for. But it doesn’t matter because I’m close again, so fucking close, and his precome is leaking all over my fucking fist, and I’m jerking him so hard his cock is probably raw, and then I’m losing it, fucking losing it, and my grip on his cock has to be way too tight but my own orgasm is over before I even realize that he’s coming, too, and I’m collapsing on him while he’s still spasming and his cock is pushed up against the mattress for the last few jerks of his orgasm. 

I lie there for a minute, letting my pulse slow down a little bit. I’m dizzy, almost vertiginous, and Potter is panting like he’s run a marathon. I slide my prick out and roll off of him, eyes shut. 

_Not real, not real, not real_ , my brain is shouting, like it always does after. I hate this part. 

“All right, then,” I say, keeping one hand tossed over my eyes. “I trust you can find your own way out.”

I can feel Potter (or Tre, really—I never know how to think of him once the sex is over) moving around on the bed, and it irritates me. “Go, Tre.”

“What? Who is—what?”

“Drop the fucking act, please. Your job’s done. Out.” That is the one nice thing about whores. None of the niceties apply. 

I hear Potter getting up, fumbling around, and I don’t open my eyes or move my arm until he’s safely out of the room. I listen some more, and finally he must be dressed, because I can hear the door open and shut. 

Fucking Tre. Little fucking diva should join the bloody theatre. Better watch it or he’ll act himself right out of a job. 

~*~

Saturday morning I find Aloysius sitting on his perch with a parchment dropped carelessly beneath him. Barmy old bird, gods know how long he’s had the message without bothering to come and find me. 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_We regret to inform you that your appointment this evening, Friday, May 4, at 7:00 PM, must be cancelled due to circumstances beyond control of either the company or Tre Woodlawn, your scheduled liaison. As Mr. Woodlawn is indisposed, we will not send a replacement unless you request that we do so._

_Please contact the agency at your earliest convenience to reschedule or otherwise rectify the situation as you see fit._

_Sincerest Regrets,_

> _Alfred B. Sonka  
Proprietor_ , The White Wand

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [secretsalex](http://secretsalex.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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